


Of Tempest and Manuscripts

by lyl_i_am



Category: Portrait de la jeune fille en feu | Portrait of a Lady on Fire (2019)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Medieval, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/F, Historical Fantasy, Historical Inaccuracy, Joan of Arc - Freeform, Portrait Portals, Portraits leaving their canvas, Slow Burn, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-21
Updated: 2020-06-05
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:55:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24310900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lyl_i_am/pseuds/lyl_i_am
Summary: A fevered dream or historical inaccuracies?For a fleeting moment their world collide and as Héloïse reached out her hands, she’s determined to undo history and make it right. This time she will burn bright and shine on Marianne, for she knows, hope is a beggar that walks on fire while faith leaps over that fire.
Relationships: Héloïse & Marianne (Portrait of a Lady on Fire), Héloïse/Marianne (Portrait of a Lady on Fire)
Comments: 17
Kudos: 41





	1. I

**Author's Note:**

> For all intents and purposes, this was created in the name of fiction and I do not own the characters that appear within the texts.

For a moment, everything went deathly still like the air itself was holding its breath. She felt a sick churning in her body and then the world collapsed into bewildering chaos.

As she watched with creeping uneasiness, the sky transitioned in rapid peculiarity that began with the sunset spreading itself thin all at once with striking colours of dusky red and orange as if burning its last raging rays in earnest; its streaks then girted in the horizon, taking on a vivid and violet appearance of a long line of low beach that soon dissipated as the wind simultaneously blew it away and drew in the night sky in its stead.

In an instant, darkness of muted stillness draped upon the world like a heavy velveteen shroud and along it brought thick angry billows and ferocious wind—a tell-tale sign of a raging storm brewing.

Her notice was soon called upon the blinding flash—more brilliant than any bolts of lightning she had ever seen—exploding nearby; and as her uneasiness rose into a full blown fear, her eyes adjusted and saw just in time a bright pink blaze ripping across the sky.

Slowly at first, then faster and faster, the rain fell in earnest battering and deafening the world save for the fresh rolls of thunder. There was no shelter from the screeching wind and freezing rain that crashed down upon the stunned girl, soaked to the skin in her cloak with her hood being whipped out her head. Barely registering what was happening, somehow, somewhere at a distance, her ears perked at the sound of unmistakable chorus of howls and at this she finally started.

‘Oh God!’

She lurched forward, sprinting and barreling through marsh and puddles with the wind beating so hard that she staggered sideways as she dashed blindly, in a jolt of hysterics, away from the maddening wailings.

Sputtering, she pawed the rain from her face, desperately trying to make out any sense of direction. It was hopeless; the roar of the thunder and the extreme fury of the rain were overpowering her senses.

As she had managed to steer herself steady a few yards ahead, she glanced over her shoulder where she was able to make out the silhouette of the incoming onslaught—a pack of wolves, five or six in numbers, red eyed with sharp fangs, growling in rabid pursuit.

In stunned horror, she scrambled in near stumble and barely kept herself aright, doubling over with her boots bogged down in muck and her hands on her knees when she suddenly smelled the salt and heard the rushing waves as the bleak, harsh view of the ocean’s tempest broke out before her on the horizon.

When her eyes finally caught up with the rest of her senses, she saw herself mere meters away from the edge of a high outcrop of jagged cliffs. Underneath, the dark waters lurched and quavered upon the crags like the tempest’s mouth frothing in wilderness.

For a moment, as she heaved with laborious breath, she imagined just surrendering, letting herself be swallowed up below.

Then, all at once, she heard it. Someone was screaming her name.

‘Marianne!’

The voice was close. She searched frantically for its source but the blinding rain kept crashing down; without a second’s thought, she turned her back to the ocean and shot out her arm forward and grabbed hold of the voice’s hand, locking it tightly in her grasp.

‘Marianne!’

A shrill voice was calling and in an instant, everything went deathly still and the world turned into complete darkness.

Marianne awoke with a start, panting and sweating profusely as she sat up in her bed, clutching a fistful of her sheets. She had been dreaming the same nightmares over and over again, for at least a week now, and each time she seems to get closer and closer to unveiling the identity of the voice.

Today was the closest she had ever been; at times she would wake just before she breaks into a run; other times, just before the storm pelts, but each time, the dream starts from the moment the bright pink blaze splits across the sky. 

The fact that she had managed to clutch the person’s hand signified—as Marianne reasoned—that she might get lucky soon enough and actually see the person’s face. And if she’s super lucky, hopefully, that revelation will bring these nightmarish episodes into a close.

But like all dreams, it soon ends until reality wakes her up and she is once again left to face the everyday banalities of life.

With those thoughts in mind, Marianne resigned to the day and got ready for work.

Modest hereditary wealth and ancestral notoriety in the arts afforded Marianne an education of similar fashion as her marginally prominent father.

To her credit, her contemplative turn of mind enabled her to quickly methodize the early and diligent studies of portraiture which resulted into eloquent expressions bound within a canvas, bursting with life of various colours; a painting brushed with such an ease that she never found forced upon her hands—that to Marianne was the very joy of living.

In her undergrad, she painted several lovely portraits and even earned herself some worthy accolades and distinctions throughout her post-secondary career; she was thought as a sort of prodigy having surpassed her art professors very quickly; and while she enjoyed the acknowledgements from her brief and illustrious vocation, nothing could have prepared her from the real world struggle of being a dreamy artist debutante.

She soon realized the truth behind the “starving artists” moniker and discovered that although portrait was very much considered as high art, it was in fact an art that is not at all highly considered much these days; there were little demands for portraits, not like the way they do in the eighteenth century perhaps, especially when photography and prints are so much more accessible and considerably cheaper.

In any case, like the true art connoisseur that she is, she utilized her skills and persevered with learning the trade on demand and soon branched out.

Upon the whole, she considered herself luckier than most of her peers, having her own home studio where she can comfortably do all sorts of projects, be it in portrait, photography or prints; and while that fortunate thought was comforting in a sense, nothing irked her more than the uncomfortable truth that she had somewhat garnered an unfortunate reputation.

Marianne, whose erudition of the arts was profound and borne with talents of no common order, had somehow came to be better known as the city’s best doggy portraitist.

‘I swear to God if I have to fucking paint one more dog!’ she huffed and fought the urge to rumple her rags through the canvas.

With a feeling of sheer frustration, she observed the picture of the client’s dog; a big wolfish husky with bright blue eyes, smiling and seemingly docile enough.

She pursed her lips and combed her hair through her fingers with exasperated sigh; she recalls how she was thrown by accident into this furred affair a few years ago when she ran onto an old acquaintance of her father.

All thanks to Lady Madeleine—a widower whose small stature she made up with her grandiose demeanor and wealth; she was rambunctious yet was never boisterous, haughty but was never boastful, a hearty gossiper yet knew how to be succinct, had a sharp tongue yet was never intentionally mean. All in all despite the woman’s conflicting oddities, Marianne liked her well enough and thought her as bright, proud, and bubbly.

And so Marianne, how evident was her perplexity to see the woman in such a forlorn state, soon dismissed a feign slip and regarded her with concern.

And thus, she learned the fate of the old lady’s most faithful companion—Ernie—a black great dane who loyally followed his master everywhere; the gentle giant had apparently died from the luxury of old age rendering his master widowed once more.

With a spurt of spontaneous urge to uplift the bereaved, Marianne offered her consolation by way of painting a portrait of Ernie—the dog and the husband together as they both shared the same name—so she has something nice to remember them by.

Of course Marianne didn’t know then that that was to propel her newly found fame; as it turned out, Lady Madeleine, the ever perplexing lady, had a very popular Instagram account; visibly moved and in better spirits, she posted the portrait online where her million strong followers, rich and celebrity friends alike, poured in their sympathies and support.

And in accidental happenstance, Marianne found herself in the attention to some riveted fans that admired her work.

The undue, earnest and sometimes frivolous attention confounded Marianne but if truth be told, the entrepreneur in her was excited by the prospects of steady income, especially coming from those who would indulge enough for a pet—those always screamed well off.

The volume of commission rose and while at first she had happily taken up many clients, she was immediately faced with an unhappy worker in herself.

‘Painting dogs is so fucking boring!’ she cried to herself one day.

No sooner had those profane syllables passed her lips, Marianne as if awakened from her reverie, leaped to her feet and shrugged out of her painting smock and locked up shop decidedly.

It was two hours before her shift, but Marianne needed a break from looking at dogs all day. She relished her Wednesday afternoons merely to derive pleasure from the long walks to the art gallery where she had taken up a casual position doing odd clerical and restoration work.

With a cigarette in her lips and light steps on her feet, she took her last puff and made her way to the front doors. Just before she could extend her hand to pull at the stanchion, the door opened and out came Lady Madeleine who nearly ran up against her, evidently in a hurry; she pulled out her kerchief with a hassled yank from her purse and Marianne watched as coins fell out and rolled by her feet. She then bent down to pick up the coin, a shiny quarter, and called after the old lady. 

‘Sorry love, I’m in a rush! You ladies keep it and toss it for good luck!’ Lady Madeleine bellowed back as she clambered onto the taxi.

Marianne watched the car drove off and her observations took a generalizing turn to the other lady who then mirrored the very same expression she currently sports; with a coin pinched between the thumb and the index finger, left-hand stretched out and a blank nonplussed look upon the face, they both looked at each other and shared a baffled shrug. They exchanged a quick smile and nodded in a silent agreement to do as they were told and each pocketed the stray coin.

Both ladies then made their way inside towards the concession desk where Marianne quickly rounded and manned the table. The lady ever so slightly quirked her brow and Marianne, in turn, took the opportunity of a quick sweeping observation.

By far the easiest notice, to Marianne’s descend to detail, was the lady’s eyes, or rather the tempered brilliancy that exudes in them— _is it azure?_ _or maybe green?_ —she pondered quietly and ran further her examination through the expanse of jetty lashes that hung over the eyelids to the contour of her small nose, lofty fair skin framed by cascading blonde locks, down to small roundish roguish lips now donning the smallest of smirks.

In her abstract observations, Marianne forgot herself just in a slightest minute and adjusted her expressions; her lips drew out her words unwittingly and they fell heavy and graceless in the air.

‘You have to go back, later,’ she said.

‘But I am here now.’

The lady simply replied and Marianne studied her face; her eyes shone something light— _what was it?_ —she couldn’t quite pinpoint, but all she knew was that there was something child-like in the way she spoke in that exact and satisfied composure as if her being early or late was of no greater importance than the precise moment.

She drew an easy smile and countered.

‘I meant to save you,’ Marianne explained and quickly added, ‘from a $30 admission fee.’

She shook her head to recollect herself and sheepishly continued,

‘At six, it’s for free, you see...’

‘Ah.’

The lady nodded in amused acknowledgment and ducked her head to hide a small smile. She dug her hands in her pocket and as she trained her gaze back to Marianne, a particular conclusion in her mind appeared.

‘Can you still save me though?’

Again Marianne was thrown off by the stranger’s response; she would have even considered it as a light banter had it not for the way the question was delivered. Marianne remarked the way those green eyes flickered into something entirely different, it’s almost as if it steeled itself with a fierceness of resistance with which she wrestled with— _what?—_ she can only wonder.

The sentence had passed; and it just occurred to Marianne that a long interval of time had since elapsed for a needed reply as the lady ruefully added,

‘From $30 admin fee, please?’

At length, with an equal air of seriousness, Marianne stood at her fullest and nodded in a solemn response; she knew her impressions were made onto an understanding that she will not— _cannot_ —retract the words that she knew rang the truest from her lips thus far.

‘Absolutely.’

.

.

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This resulted from culmination of months' obtrusive thoughts. This is a story I didn't intend to write until the characters themselves starting talking in my head and the plot laid itself bare begging to be penned down. I haven't slept peacefully since.
> 
> Indulgent and unedited.
> 
> Thank you.


	2. II

There are few persons who have, at some period of Marianne’s life, intrigued her with so little words, though not quite like the way this stranger had done which in itself will become a full point of interest later. As for now, Marianne had sallied forth, deeper into the gallery, alongside said stranger, fulfilling a vow she scarcely understood.

They were now strolling leisurely down a long corridor where rows upon rows of portraits hung about in the vicinity. Being both, apparently, occupied with thought, neither one of them had spoken a syllable for five minutes until at once her companion broke the silence.

‘My name is Héloïse, by the way.’

It should seem strange that it took this long to exchange introductions, however Marianne didn’t think so. It almost felt inconsequential even considering how they fell into such an easy and familiar stillness; nonetheless she stuck out her right hand to do things proper.

‘Marianne.’

Héloïse practically beamed and took an eager delight and amusement in the exercise. They shook hands with giddy and timid laughter and resumed their mindless walk.

Here Marianne indulged herself a little further to examine her companion. Héloïse was wearing a white low-cut top underneath a cream-coloured suit, paired by matching slacks and flats.

At this, she snickered at the irony of her own chosen outfit for she realized that she was wearing an almost identical assemble, save for the white dress shirt underneath her own black blazer and pants.

She also noticed that although they were nearly the same height, Héloïse was bulkier in stature with noticeably broader shoulders and leaner arms— _I should really work out more—_ she berated herself inward.

‘So, Marianne, are you sure I’m not at all imposing—?’

‘Oh,’ Marianne broke out of her musings.

‘Uh, don’t even worry about it, I don’t work until,’ she checked her watch, ‘an hour and forty five minutes.’

Héloïse did not hesitate to hide the pleasure she derived from Marianne’s vested interest and let out a low chuckling laugh. And in turn, Marianne did not hesitate to hide the pleasure she derived from seeing the remarkable childish character of Héloïse’s face and let out a few chuckles herself.

‘Well then, we will make every seconds count.’

Their manner of movements fell into a comfortable ease and their gaze, despite darting to and fro as they pass several art pieces, would often land upon one another in keener interest.

Marianne, through furtive glances, continued her observations; she guessed that they must be closer in age judging from the faint lines that appears when Héloïse smiles; and although she displayed a chanced glimpse of child-like innocence, Marianne knew that her green eyes shone more summers than both of them combined.

She would also go as far as to concede to the fact that Héloïse exceeded her in the way she carried her person; the woman practically radiated of composed dominance— _not a complex I hope!—_ with her cool and reserved demeanor and natural elegance in her gait; that’s a finesse she knew you can’t just emulate.

‘So…’ Marianne drawled, an attempt at sophisticated diversion, ‘Do you know much about the arts or just a casual observer?’

Héloïse pursed her lips, sharp lines appearing between the brows, she hummed in contemplation.

‘An observer of sorts and into the arts from a historian perspective,’ she said in an equal tone.

‘Oooh! A history _buff_!’ Marianne teased in good humour— _how fitting_ —and tilted her head in a prompt.

‘Which era is your expertise?’

‘I wouldn’t say expertise, but I do know more about the late medieval period, 15th century France to be precise. And you, I take it you know much about the arts?’

Marianne ducked her head and scoffed, ‘Worst, studied it; portraiture to be exact.’

‘Nice! You still do portraits?’

There can be no doubt of Marianne’s rapid increase of self-consciousness as she absently swiped her forehead with her forefinger and replied somewhat stilted.

‘Of dogs lately?’ she said in a nervous laugh, ‘Does that count?’

‘Ah well it’s still something.’ Héloïse replied with kind and knowing smile.

‘What’s so special about it anyway?’ Marianne retorted, eager to veer the subject, ‘about medieval French history?’

The historian considered the question and welcomed the changed prompt.

‘One ought to know their roots you know.’

‘Is that a jab at me?’

‘Do you even speak French?’

Marianne gaped at her in mock insult and placed her hands in akimbo.

‘Excuse me, there’s plenty of us francophone here in Montréal,’ she said in her indignant French, ‘myself included.’

‘Ah there it is! The venerated Québécois accent.’

Héloïse exclaimed in her rapid lilt and melodic French, eyes crinkling and smiling in full—a sight that Marianne can’t seem to get enough of.

She narrowed her eyes in jest, ‘Don’t you dare say I sound like a duck so help me God!’

‘Ok then I won’t,’ quipped Héloïse, hands in the air in mock surrender and added as an afterthought, ‘but I think it’s quite,’ she paused and unabashedly raked her eyes—head to toe—upon the now blushing Marianne.

‘Pretty.’

After some time, shaking off from the unexpected coquettish pass, Marianne found herself in a series of feeble and futile struggles to return the compliment and looked on as Héloïse pattered on with purposeful steps and contented smile.

She chewed the inside of her cheeks and weighed her options.

‘Is there anything particular you wanted to see here?’

‘Actually, I came for the new exhibit.’

The French medieval exhibit, Marianne remembers now. There were several antiques that were loaned from a Parisian private collection and although she wasn’t around to help with the floor arrangements, she had heard enough buzz about it from her coworker Sophie.

‘Great! I actually haven’t seen it myself, come I’ll sneak us in!’

Héloïse seemed singularly interested in the progress of their affair for she was all smiling and nodding in happy agreement.

‘Let’s go!’

At this, Marianne made bold to take Héloïse’s hand upon hers and they rushed up a few flight of stairs with a child-like giddiness and merriment as if dashing onto unknown adventure.

Upon arriving at the second landing, a spectacle presented itself which stopped them dead in their tracks and struck them mute with astonishment.

They scanned the real aspect of the view; its principal feature of obtrusive quiescence seemed to be more of a person rather than an elaborate display; and as they climbed the remaining stairs, they regarded the room with hesitant steps of someone who is about to intrude someone else’s pensive solitude.

The usually bright and full studio was now swathed with imposing décor of tall and narrow folding Gothic doors and stained glass windows whose colour varied in accordance to the flicker of the soft dim light emanating within the sparseness of the room.

The room itself was fashioned to look like a circular chamber, almost tower like, with exposed greying bricks for walls as one would see from a castle; the ceiling called upon immediate notice with its several dark steel plated braces that adjoined upright onto the middle, like swords piled on King Arthur’s round table, creating an effect of a dome. The central piece that adorned the ceiling bore elaborate etchings within a square metal brass where a brassy chandelier hung in candlelit.

Just directly below, the floor mimicked the walls of ashy limestone tiles, grouted in an arrangement that reminded Marianne of the sun, with a circular cutout in the middle and long wide cones for rays, funneling and narrowing onto the center.

As they entered the suite in slow echoed footfall, Marianne glanced at Héloïse, who in turn, gave her the slightest nod of encouragement to advance.

Hand in hand, Marianne’s curiosity led them at the very back of the room, where a section of the wall was shrouded in deep scarlet, velvet tapestries that draped from the ceiling and down the walls; its heavy folds flowed upon the carpeting of the same material and hue.

The furnishings itself, although somewhat scant, was laid about with obvious decision. There was one bedstead, four posted, where curtains of thick corduroy-like materials were drawn and hung loosely, complementing the bedding and at the foot of it, a heavy coffer stood lidded shut, its content yet to be rifled.

They soon moved westerly where the walls were somehow carved out, boxing in a nook of latticed windows that stood from the ceiling to the floor; and on its sides, as if hollowed from the rocks itself, stretched a small bedrock davenport opposite from one another, as one would see on a den. There was a small wooden table wedged in the middle, where a silver jug laid in between two single candelabrum atop a linen cloth which gave it an impression of an altar.

Marianne’s attention soon darted onto the makeshift hearth which was kindled, as she guessed, by some sort of electric device mimicking a burning log. Just before she could flit away, her immediate notice was then captivated by the full sized portrait that was hoisted above the furnace. It was illuminated by soft incandescent lights, affixed to each corner as if emphasizing its presence fully.

The effect was definitely mesmerizing; they moved to get a closer look and a vague and half-formed conception flitted over Marianne’s mind as Héloïse broke their silent observations.

‘Do you recognize it?’

Marianne studied the portrait, or rather, the subject of the portrait; a young lady— _a knight?_ —who stood regally in her burnished, copper-gilded, plate armour. Her breastplate was etched with various insignia that she couldn’t quite make out, but there, just above the bosom was an unmistakable scripts that may have spelt as— _Jesu and Maria?_ —she mused. The leg plate was pleated of the same material and ever so slightly you can see the dark chainmail where the plating cannot cover the joints.

Marianne soon studied the face; it was well-proportioned, fair-skinned, tinged rosy on the cheeks and lips, draped by short raven locks that tousled in defiance just below the earlobes. The young knight held a stoic expression while the eyes, full and almond shape, were smoldering with a steadfast conviction.

Upon the whole, there was nothing truly remarkable on her features, it seemed rather common enough, yet somehow Marianne can’t help but feel a sense of familiarity in them.

She roamed her eyes further and examined the young knight’s hands; her left palm rested upon the hilt of her sword while her right gripped a pole that swayed behind an ivory flag, embroidered with inscriptions she can’t decipher.

‘Sometimes she’s depicted with blonde hair,’ Héloïse added thoughtfully after some time.

‘That’s what I would have done,’ said Marianne absently as she tamed her own ruffled wiry hair.

‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean, isn’t she supposed to be Jeanne d'Arc, La Pucelle d'Orléans?’

Marianne narrowed her eyes and considered thoughtfully, ‘Didn’t she like led an army at 17?’

‘Yes, that’s right, but what does that have to do with her hair?’

In this, they each retreated in their own mind having discovered an unimportant minutia; perhaps the eye of scrutinizing observer of a portraitist vastly differ from the likes of historians, nonetheless, Marianne voiced her musings further.

'The painter made her look,’ she paused, ‘a bit feminine?’

Héloïse whipped her head up and looked at the portrait, closely at the face first and then took a step back to consider the painting in full.

‘I disagree,’ she stated and trained her gaze back to Marianne, head tilted in a contest.

‘How would you have painted her then?’

‘Like you.’

It was thus that Marianne spoke of the true nature of her objections against the painter. And in the manner of her candid and sincere admission, Héloïse was at once struck with a startling reception. Her eyes fixed upon Marianne, reddening at the rim, and throughout her whole countenance there reigned a mixed sentiment of enamoured awe.

‘Thank you.’

A smile quivered about her lips and as she spoke in a low, demure murmur, Marianne felt herself swoon.

.

.

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If only the movie in my head can write itself.
> 
> I hope you enjoy it.


	3. III

Their brief and peculiar state of affairs had seized Marianne with a sentiment that aroused within her like a rapidly growing vine wounding tightly upon her chest; she would in vain attempt to define that sentiment but the steadily she view it, the more readily it escapes her.

‘Hey, snap out of it.’

What might have been her conduct it is difficult to say, but Marianne for the moment, was left in rapt and restless abandon as she watch Héloïse deliver her lecture about the exhibit. Her study of expertise and words of bygone years echoed themselves as singular heeds upon the attending crowd; yet to Marianne, it fell as sweet litanies as if she had never heard a more fluent talker, or a woman of greater general information before.

‘Huh?’ she replied in distracted hum and recalled the near unveiling of Héloïse’s mysterious lips.

‘Earth to Marianne!’

How great was her surprise and frustration then when the junior curator intruded seconds before their burning stares bloom in full fruition; Marianne knew had it been a minute more, the spell that consumed them would have absolved all oppressed civility into folly.

‘My goodness, stop doing that!’

‘Doing what?—’

‘Undressing Professor Romée with your eyes!’

Her cue, which was a crude imitation that laid in her actions—slacked jaw, wide eyed—mimicked by her co-worker, Sophie, did she finally dressed her gaping in modesty.

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘Uh huh, as if you’re _that_ interested in 15th century France.’

‘Hey you never know when this information might come in handy!’

Sophie, to be sure, was a sharp girl and though it is needless to confess the state she had found them in, Marianne would have preferred to keep mum about her heightened interest in the historian; however, her curiosity had not been altogether satisfied and thus she resorted to consult the girl with immediate inquiry.

It was then she who informed the real object of the historian’s visit. It appears that in addition to Héloïse’s richness in mind—called upon to lecture about the artifacts—she also exhibits richness in wealth having owned said artifacts.

Sophie rebutted and rolled her eyes in jest, ‘like seducing a baller history professor, maybe?’

‘Oh shut it.’

This fact occasioned Marianne a world of curiosities and as she surveyed the enigmatic woman upon the makeshift podium, she became aware, for the first time, of the outline of a figure lurking in the dimmed hallway behind.

She strained her eyes to better observe but found the figure insufficiently indistinct, shrouding the dark in seemingly faded and blurred colour as if looking at a painting’s soft edges. She watched the shadowy figure flit away further down the hall until it escaped her periphery.

A wild interest had taken a hold of her and she readily busied herself in endeavours to follow out of mere intuition than obligation. She rounded to exit the room and swung the glass doors shut and upon entering the dimmed hallway, she proceeded in cautious steps and called out—the result was met with silence but not in absence; she watched the figure in standstill, somewhat in fear but more in agitated curiosity.

There was something in the appearance of this figure which caused her to regard it more attentively; while she gazed directly at it, she fancied that she saw its eyes gleamed and its head beckoned, ever so slightly upwards, as it made its way in a slow sweeping ascent up to the second floor where the Gothic chamber lay.

A fearful idea creeped under her skin, yet the irresistible oddity drove her feet to proceed for many paces upstairs, treading each step with careful distrust. Quitting the landing, she resolved to brave the eerie chamber alone and outstretched her arm to intrude upon its solemn seclusion once more.

She threw the doors open and the mystery of the shrouded apparition broke at once upon her understanding.

The figure was bent forward towards the hearth; its face, though obscured, stared fixedly at the whimpering ember and nursed it aflame with reassuring prod as it cracked and ripped from meek agony.

And ever so slowly, with tiny speckled sparks, the flame slithered onto the log, where it licked, tasted, and finally devoured its entirety and grew ablaze in most startling hues of bewildering silver, crimson, and gold, laced with a blinding brilliancy of cobalt by its ridges.

At once, Marianne was obliged to behold her gaze upon the magnificent fire in vacancy and in demeanor of profoundest attention as its fiery tendrils dance in allure, rendering her spellbound and bewitched.

‘Marianne, is that you?’

A hesitant voice barely attracted her notice, and without so much as a glance, she heard, rather than saw, Héloïse rushing to in frenzied urgency as she sidled forward in a protective stance ahead of her like a shield. Héloïse instinctively gripped her hands from behind—a firm assurance and gentle comfort—all the while boring her eyes onto the chromatic vision before them.

‘Are you alright?’

Héloïse’s worried intonation mirrored her demeanor as she regarded the shadow in front with a distressed frown and restrained fear reigning upon her face; its air appalled her and oppressed her with hostile hysteria and wondered how long the painter must have endured it without breaking in.

With that thought, her attention was arrested back to Marianne and turned, only to find the woman’s manner abstracted and fretful in a kind of mute restless agitation; she recognized the stupefied stupor that evidently dominated her presence of mind and thus she spoke, ‘Marianne, please say something.’

As soon as those words parted from her lips, Marianne was lifted from her trance and though she did not immediately apprehend what was happening, seeing Héloïse gave her rapid relief.

‘How very nice of you to accompany us, Héloïse.’

An uncontrollable tremor suddenly pervaded Marianne’s frame and she felt an unbridled horror struck through her heart. She saw her fright clearly reflected upon Héloïse’s ghostly pallor and gaping eyes and they both shared a look of momentous panic as their breaths betrayed a trembled whimper out of their lips.

With wild desperation, they dreaded a glance at their mysterious company who then slowly rose out of reverie—the hissing vigour of the flames soaring along—until it stood fully—the fire raging madly—and finally faced them with seething glare as if stepping out of the fire itself.

Héloïse gasped.

Marianne shuddered.

With the most vivid and uncanny distinctness, the figure sharpened in hard lines and had taken a definite shape amidst the lights and shadows of the chamber.

There, above the fire, the portrait hung empty; its perfect cut-out where the outline of a young lady in armour should have been now stood before them in tempestuous fury.

Marianne’s worst thoughts then, were confirmed.

.

.

.


	4. IV

Marianne felt it creeping upon her, by slow yet certain degrees, the wild and maddening influences of this portrait’s phantasmal form and extraordinary personification.

A violent terror sat upon her heart and she could hear pounding its core within her ears; perspiration formed as cold big beads upon her forehead as the intensity of the heat, fused with extreme trepidation, oppressed and stifled her so. The agony of suspense grew intolerable and she knew the longer she remained, the sooner her sanity would abandon her.

She was seized with strong desire to flee at once; trembling convulsively in every fibre, she barely managed a meager step backwards until the portrait spoke once more.

‘It will not do, _Marianne_ , to tempt those feet to run when they scarcely support you upright.’

There was no mistaking it this time; from the moment the shadow first uttered its words, Marianne was consumed with unnerving recognition of the familiar lilt of the tone and the singular whisper that grew the very echo of her own voice.

As if to confirm her horrendous comprehension, the knight moved forward; and with great revulsion, Marianne recalled her earlier premonition at the portrait’s familiarity and now perceived their disturbing similitude: starting from the eyes and its radiant lustre, the contour of the forehead, the pallid complexion and the frayed raven locks, down to the defiant jut of the chin.

How profoundly this horrifying portraiture bedeviled Marianne; in shape and colouring, in its soft persuasive credulity and its youthful vitality—she knew, with all her life, that she will never venture or able to describe such discovery of a more perfect and eloquent imitation of her younger self.

‘No, it can’t be…you—you’re not me...’

The young knight’s charming face grew eager and threw an encouraging nod at her slow and begrudged understanding.

In actions and intonations, young Marianne admirably played the part; save for the matter of clothing, her gait and mannerism was easily pantomimed.

Curiously she watched the women, the terror in their eyes and the desperate clasps of their hands; they stood close together, linked in their petrified stillness; and she heard the hysteric murmur of her successor’s talking, but what she said she could not catch.

She then drew a long breath with the air of surly youth peeved at her descendant’s dimness and ran her fingers through her tresses with impatience. At once, she resumed her advance and paced her steps to encircle them with piercing eyes as she prepared for the long telling.

‘Marianne, if I may say so frankly, you are distressing yourself unnecessarily. I, at length, perfectly well know that you have great propensity to construct and deconstruct features to consider ones likeness against the real. Do not do yourself injustice as to deny the remarkable semblance of my face against yours, for to do so is akin to denying your very own reflections upon the mirror. To be sure, in all appearances, you are me as I am you.’

‘How did…you…impossible—‘said Marianne dumbstruck.

‘Here is the part of the mystery which even I feel impossible to explain; I began hazily yet positively, to perceive a faint glimmer, a glow-like conception of actuality that dawned upon me, steadily, as I regained cognizance of the world beyond the canvas. When I recovered, how was it possible that I should be fated to gaze upon a scrutinizing eye, much like my own, poring over the strokes and edges of my makings? As my mind struggled to establish the connection, I saw clearly my doom maker and commended myself upon the opportune coincidence by which I had escaped.’

It seems Marianne had found herself resigned to series of feeble and futile struggles to overcome her fright as waves upon waves of bizarre particulars drown her close to lunacy. She willed her eyes shut and clutched at her head as if desperately jarring herself awake from an abhorrent nightmare.

‘None of these makes sense, aren’t you—aren’t you supposed to be Joan of Arc?’

The knight paused for a moment to look at the hearth; and as she gazed upon the magnificent ember, there revealed her true sentiments hidden beneath the colourful wildness of the fire—violent crimson burning with animosity within her almond shaped eyes; a silvery flicker of grudge through the tiniest crease of her forehead, soaring up against the flames of contempt and fiery malice that curled upon her lips.

‘Ah! With matters of my suppositions, though you are quite right, it is easy enough to mistake me as the patron saint of France considering the regality of my battle wares; but I assure you, I shall not dare stake a claim to those illustrious titles,’ young Marianne then turned to Héloïse and continued, ‘Oh no, I wouldn’t dream of it, especially in the presence of its rightful titleholder.’

Paralyzed by the baffling discretion, Marianne’s face contorted with troubling confusion and questioned sharply, ‘what is she talking about?!’

It is uncertain what Marianne expected to get out of that question and strangely, her annoyance turned not against the young knight but against Héloïse and stole a sideway look.

Having her attention called upon, Héloïse couldn’t possibly grow more rigid; her shoulder squared and her stance heightened in full with an air of resolute defiance and indomitable spirit. She made neither affirmations nor repudiations upon the bold provocations, but simply stood and made bold of her immediate purpose as a wedge between the two Marianne.

‘I see now that Héloïse will no longer indulge me; but then again, she has always been such a spoilsport since childhood,’ the knight continued, ‘I wish you, Marianne, to bear carefully in mind that although I have spoken of very unusual degree of proclaims and activities, I assure you that I am not the greatest monstrosity here; while I admit, I was able to attune some sense and cognition upon the world within my canvas, it is she, Héloïse, who befits that title. She is an abomination who may seem afresh in the flesh, yet to be sure, rotten in the mind from the ghoulish past she harbours.’

They turned presently into a tumultuous quiet and at once, the knight unsheathed her majestic sword and its blade sung in the air; with graceful flourish of the hand, she sliced the carmine tapestry clean and true from the wall; its slashed hem pooled on the floor, revealing yet another oddity in its place.

Marianne knew all too well that at present, everything had ceased to make sense; yet as she struggled to ascertain the moment, the implications sluggishly dawned on her.

The shocking circumstance drained her remaining courage and effectively, she fell backwards, graceless and resigned, as she gaped in bewilderment at yet another portrait—mirroring her supposed younger one—hoisted high and vacant.

‘Marianne, it’s high time you meet the real Maid of Orléans, Jeanne Héloïse Romée D’arc, the devil who escaped her fate and walked as denizen of the earth since 1431.’

Marianne sat very still, eyes darting between the two spirits of the past which thronged her mind into great upheaval.

Suddenly she had an odd impression of Héloïse. Was she really conjured from the shades of that canvas where the shapes and colourings outlined the second vacant portraiture?— _impossible_ —she thought to herself as she observed the more lively and solid stoic figure of the historian.

‘Héloïse, please tell me she’s lying.’

She did not answer; did not move. Marianne felt her conscious, strange upset and turned away, slowly, as a pang of dread shot through her. Disturbed to the heart, she got up from the floor and moved to the latticed window at the far end with her face blanched and her hands folded over the chest; she cowered under the table and sobbed.

Gingerly, Héloïse followed and resumed her stance; she stood sideways, gazing in between the past and present Marianne with eyes deep from age. The passionate shame burned and seized her soul with profound remorse as her body succumbed to vicious tremors, so unlike the restrained and stoicism of her character, and her mind whirled with haunted memories of long life.

Héloïse moved instinctively towards the present to offer her reassurances and a sudden sidelong look from the past troubled her; those swirling tincture of blues, greens and greys within the almond shaped eyes turned impossibly dark and she knew she made the wrong choice.

In that confused moment, she saw a blur of steel slicing through the air and its blade clanged loudly on the very spot she previously stood; the sword narrowly missed her as she dodged deftly away.

Whether from the manic growl or the look of past Marianne’s horrid scowl, Héloïse felt her murderous intent creep along her spine; and with safety of the present in mind, she dashed towards the coffer to retrieve her own sword.

Her robust pallid hands, where the blue veins stood out, held the gilded longsword—polished and razor-sharp—and swung it twice in manner so elegant and distinguished with the likes of a seasoned warrior. She assumed her posture by drawing her weapon in midpoint, arms stretched forward while the pointy end casted to the ground in an indirect and nonthreatening guard.

Marianne the knight isn’t the kind to be outdone; she too, made good of her swordplay and swung her sword twice across her lithe form in a graceful manner, the heavy armour showing no sign of impediment of movement. She then drew her weapon up, the hilt just above her temple and its point positioned at a direct thrust to her opponent’s throat.

So they stood guarded, by the firelight, in the silence, one of each side of the hearth.

And the fume of the knight’s burning hatred seemed to seethe strongly and gripped Héloïse by the throat until she could bear it no longer.

‘If you’ve come to exact revenge, then by your hands I shall die; I only ask you spare the innocent, for your fight is with me and not with her.’

Marianne watching from a safe distance saw Héloïse’s face change; the lines between her brows and underneath her eyes became pronounce as the brooding, worried look deepened on it. She sought her eyes, but Héloïse gave no answering look.

At her words, all Marianne’s doubts and fears revived as if a far-off nightmare was made uncannily real in which she can only watch taciturn and immovable.

The knight replied, though not in words, but in sword as the sound of metals clashed; blades hit one another in sparks of gold, russet and silver and cut through the air, leaving trails of colourful streaks.

The knight attacked viciously and unrelentingly; the vigour of her youth exerted no signs of fatigue. She charged with heavy blows, each slashed fused with fierce fury.

Héloïse gave in to instinct and parried the attacks with swift pivots and agile footsteps; she could feel her sword buzz as she countered each deadly pummel. She then shifted her feet, grip tightening at the hilt as she steadied for another blow.

A loud clang filled the chamber as Héloïse staggered backwards from the impact; and the knight made good of the sudden opening and drove the sole of her foot squarely upon her bust.

Héloïse felt the wind knocked out of her chest and landed heavily on her back; she scarcely had time to recover when another strike landed just a second later and she instantly held her sword across to block.

The knight’s blade grinded against metal as she lunged with heavy and brutal crushing blow; she drove her blade further down, adding her full weight, and loomed atop of her opponent.

Through gritted teeth, Héloïse stole her glance upon young Marianne’s face; she remarked the suppleness of her complexion, the brilliancy of her great, wide eyes that once radiated with fondness and tenderness; she observed her lips, pinkish and full, her memory recollecting its sweet murmurs and bygone whispers.

Héloïse then felt the weight of those long haunted years and her eyes welled up in sorrow as young Marianne with her pitiful wan face, so cruel and soft, pinned her ruthlessly. She watched as her young gleaming eyes, consumed with rage and hatred, seemed to rise and fall in a flicker of dark and cold, whose sight so singularly focused upon her imminent death.

Suddenly, a tear fell and wetted her eyelashes; and then young Marianne cried, striking her deadliest blow yet.

‘You betrayed me and left me to burn at the stake.’

The scorching nature of their tragedy—forces that was passed with a heavy hand of judgment, working through the heavenly and devilry undertones of their ironical end had met and fused with a thunder-clap and raging fire.

Héloïse wishes nothing but to undo history and take away the pain she caused her.

Seemingly out of nowhere, Marianne with a great show of bravery flung the heavy silvery jug and hit her predecessor square on the head; she watched her writhe in momentous agony as the object ricocheted towards the hearth and knocked the knight’s canvas straight to the fire’s mouth.

The magnificent ember engulfed the wood and the multihued linen hungrily as the knight shrilled in outrage and turned her wrath towards her.

The knight twisted in fury and lunged, striking a deadly thrust upon Marianne.

Marianne, stupefied in terror, screwed her eyes shut and braced for the piercing plunge of the sword.

When she felt no sudden pain, she opened her eyes and saw her unfortunate fatality cut through Héloïse’s chest, with her hands on the blade, gripping it tightly and gasping between pants. Her crimson blood pooling fast on the floor and in the midst of her terrible efforts, Marianne was surprised to hear her groan in whisper.

‘Let me save you, at least this time.’

With the slick sound of blood and flesh, the knight pulled out her sword and gave a terrific lurch, reeling Héloïse behind as she toppled over Marianne and they both fell violently inside Héloïse’s old and vacant canvas of the past.

.

.

.

**Author's Note:**

> This resulted from culmination of months' obtrusive thoughts. This is a story I didn't intend to write until the characters themselves starting talking in my head and the plot laid itself bare begging to be penned down. I haven't slept peacefully since.
> 
> This is a crack fic.
> 
> Indulgent and unedited.
> 
> Thank you.


End file.
